


Agent of the Inquisition (Almost)

by Amethyst97Skye



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Delusions, F/M, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern Girl in Thedas, Red Lyrium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-08 05:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8832742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethyst97Skye/pseuds/Amethyst97Skye
Summary: One of the prisoners the Inquisitor frees during the 'Red Captor' side quest is not all she seems...
My thanks to 'ecarius' for the inspiration! Have a read of their work if you get the chance.
UPDATE: I've moved the rating to 'Teen and Up' because of swearing in the second and third chapters.





	1. Rocky Rescue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ecarius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecarius/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Rocky Rescue' is right. Now go kill my Red Captors! What? You already killed them? Oh. Sorry, I wasn't paying attention. Can I reload a previous save? No? Are you sure? Well... At least I can swear and get away with it here. Priorities, people. Priorities.

One of the men locked in the cage with me tried to prize my hands from the bars. He knew I didn’t, couldn’t, speak, so he turned my head and pointed after the other escapees. I shook my head, _no_ , prized one of my hands free – cold metal, plus raw flesh, equals frostbite burns – and wave him off with a shooing motion before turning back to the Inquisitor. He’s staring at me now, like he’s seen a nug fly; I was alone in the cage, and there was nothing else in the vicinity, so I couldn’t think what brought on that expression. Judging by the greatsword, he’s a warrior. Maybe even a former Templar.

I’d though the Maker would have given me some good luck, for a change, though I can’t complain, considering my _primary_ hope was that the Inquisition would come and save us. I didn’t want to become a Red Templar, or a Red Anything, and I certainly didn’t want them mining my corpse for more of that blighted stuff. I _had_ hoped they’d bring Cole; him reading my mind – or whatever he does – wasn’t my first choice, but it was better than trying to converse through crude sign language. Failing that, I’d hoped they’d bring Bull. But no, I’m stuck with Varric, Cassandra and Solas. My Qunlat, or my memory of it, at least, is better than my Elven. Elvish. Whatever. Hell, I probably knew more Orlesian or Antivan than I did Elven.

I suppose I should thank the Maker for fulfilling my wish at all. It would have been nice to use Plan A or B, because I didn’t think to make a Plan C. Initially, I thought ‘Let’s free ourselves’, but only a scant few of us could fight, no one knew how to pick a lock to save their life, (ha), and it wasn’t like there was anywhere safe to go. I did consider following my fellow prisoners, but I couldn’t remember where the NPCs from the ‘Red Captor’ side quest actually go, _or_ what happens to them. It seemed like a one-off kind of quest, the kind that lacked sequels, or even some sort of epilogue. I figured my best chance would be to stick it out until the Inquisitor arrived, and then find some way to convince them that I could help. Besides, being recruited as an agent still sounded pretty cool. Very cool, if I’m to be honest.

They were talking about something or other, and it was Solas who approached first, gesturing to my hands and talking in complete gibberish. He sounded like a minion, or a Sim. I couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped, and leaned my head against the bars to try and collect myself. Varric snapped an arm at several surrounding veins of red lyrium after waving a hand at me. The Inquisitor looked guilty, Cassandra oddly sympathetic, Varric very pissed off, and I felt like Solas was trying not to cry.

It's nice to know he cares, so, I said, “ _Ma serannas_.”

I don’t know whether I butchered the language or not and, frankly, I was too focused on the fact that I’d made Solas jump. Like, literally. His feet left the ground. The Inquisitor seemed to try and console him, Varric was trying not to laugh, and Cassandra was giving me a searching look. I pulled one of my hands free, the one I hadn’t yet moved, and Solas swivelled round at my cry, took it in his own and layered it with silky blue stuff. Magic. No pain, no blood, no frostbite. Just a few white scars. I offered me my other hand, and he repeated the process.

It took me a moment, and I must have scrunched up my face in thought because it sounded like someone – I’m not sure who – was trying to reassure me. I waved them off.

“ _Ma… Melava… halani. Ma serannas, falon_.” I gave a little bow for good measure, and slammed my head against the bars. Metal hurts. With everyone else gone, I could sit on the cage floor. I don’t know what force kept me upright all this time, but my body decided it didn’t want to get up any time soon. “Ah… _Ir abelas_ ,” I groaned.

Solas said something; I knew it was him because I heard the word ‘ _da’len_ ’, but that was all I understood. Another wave of magic, left me shivering. Was it supposed to feel so all-encompassing, so… intimate? Maybe I just wasn’t used to it. Regardless, I wasn’t getting anywhere; all I’d done was frighten Solas, and maybe amuse Varric. It was high time I corrected that.

I cleared my throat. They were ‘discussing’ again, but stopped and looked round. Solas, for some reason, was sitting beside me. When did that happen? I shook my head and pointed to the over-hanging vein of Red Lyrium. “Corypheus,” I said. The reaction was instantaneous. Varric blanched, the Seeker started demanding things, the Inquisitor tried to calm her down, and Solas draped a blanket over my shoulders. His pack, which I hadn’t seen, was resting at the cage mouth, which he had somehow dragged me over to; I was sitting on the edge, legs dangling like a child. God – Maker – I felt so helpless. I really wished Cole were here.

“Um, Solas…?” I asked. He gave me his undivided attention, probably because no one had introduced themselves. Well, there was nothing I could do about that _now_ , but I _could_ learn where in the timeline they were. “Halamshiral?” His gaze darkened. “Er, Celene? Gaspard? Briala?” He seemed speechless, eyes wide with surprise. “Er, Weisshaupt? Clarel? Hawke? Crestwood?” I was getting rather desperate. I hope he understood that.

Before I could think of what else to ask, Solas regained himself, called out to his team, and made a ‘stay’ gesture with both hands; I nodded, pulling the blanket further around me, and he relayed my words to the Inquisitor. At least, I _think_ he did. For an instant, Cassandra looked thunderous, and the next, utterly defeated. Varric was, I think, trying to raise everyone’s spirits, and the Inquisitor seemed eager about something. So cute. Almost puppy-like, the sweetheart. He circled around the cage, and came to a stop in front of me.

“Max,” he said, simply, pressing both hands against his breastplate.

“Trevelyan,” I nodded, giving my left hand a wiggle. He gave me a sad smile, then gestured over to the others. “Varric. Cassandra. Solas.”

“Varric Tethras,” I mimed opening a book, “Seeker Pentaghast,” I outlined an eye, “Solas… Solas.” That earned me a chuckle. Better than the death glare I’d have gotten if I said _Fen’Harel_! Then he opened his arms to me. When I looked on expectantly, he repeated his own introduction. Realising he was asking me to do the same, I made to reply and… nothing came out. I’d forgotten my name. I admit, I brawled like a baby; Max even gave me his shoulder to cry on, and Cassandra made a point of destroying the lyrium vein closest to us. Maybe Varric would give me a new one…


	2. Meet Max

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inquisitor Trevelyan has a knack for talking to himself, and a weakness for women in distress. Don't worry, he's not always like this. It's the Red Lyrium. Mostly.

Do you know what I hate most about Emprise du Lion? No, it’s not the fact that it’s an Orlesian settlement, although… that doesn’t help. They’re just so… Orlesian!

It’s the snow. There’s just so much fucking snow. And ice. It’s everywhere – it _gets_ everywhere: in your bedroll, in your boots, in your breeches – and it’s not the fluffy stuff I can scoop up and throw at Sera when she complains I'm getting too big for my britches. I blame it on her cookies and custard pies.

Now, where was I?

Ah, yes: snow.

You see, we Free Marchers rarely get snow. We get gale-force winds, thunder storms and the occasional flash flood, but no snow. It’s just too hot. Ferelden, however, gets so much snow it’s unbelievable. But at least their snow is clean. No, I’m not complaining about their dogs – Mabari are rather sweet, actually – I’m complaining about magic. In general. During winter, Lake Calenhad freezes over and the closer you get to Kinloch Hold the more fucked up the snow and ice feels. It’s like it’s been… embedded with magic. The Tower was abandoned after the Fifth Blight – because _demons_ – and the mages took over Soldier’s Peak.

For those of you who don't know (where have you been, living in the Deep Roads?) Soldier’s Peak was the Headquarters of the Grey Wardens. It was abandoned after Sophia Dryden’s death, then the Hero of Ferelden decided to take a looksee and found it inhabited by, you guessed it: _demons!_ It was in a far better state that Kinloch Hold, though, and the base is big enough to accommodate both the mages and Templars, as well as their families. How do I know? I used to live there.

I’m sorry, I keep going off topic. I had a point, I promise. What was it…? Er, snow, ice, magic. Yes!

The itching! Magic itches.

What? It's funny? Are you a Templar? Are you a Seeker? No, I didn’t think so. Now, pay attention. This is important. Magic, by its very nature, cannot be created or destroyed. It’s always been there and it always will be. It's a type of energy that only mages, Spirits and Demons can use. Now, the power of the mage, and the strength of their connection to the Fade, determines how strong their magic is. The itching sensation is created by their aura. The more powerful the aura, the harder it is to ignore the itch.

Vivienne, for example, has a very itchy aura. Very itchy. Dorian's is more like... duelling a Chevalier with a red hot poker. Red. Hot.

Some mages have mastered the ability to manipulate their magic so that, instead of having sandpaper scrub across your skin, it feels like silk sliding between your fingers. Typically, Demons don’t have refined auras (the exceptions being Pride, Desire and Envy. Don't ask). Spirits, on the other hand, do. Lyrium is… hard to explain. It’s like drinking the finest, most exquisite wine. That’s why you get lyrium addicts. They’re fancy alcoholics, but the side effects are ten times worse. Um... Make that a hundred. Poor Cullen.

Red Lyrium, however, is like – like trying to force coals from Harritt’s forge down your throat. The itch becomes a burn and the desire to put it out, to… _quench_ the flames, becomes all you can think about. You end up thirsting for the very stuff that will _kill you_! It’s harder for Templars to resist because they know what lyrium tastes like. They know it’s cold and calming like nothing else.

Why am I babbling on about all this? I told you: it’s important. Emprise du Lion has been forced into a perpetual winter with itchy ice and snow, and burning Red Lyrium that sings – yes, magic sings – to anyone and everyone within its grasp, which is growing. Fast. Red Templars have been harvesting the stuff like Elfroot (seriously, though, the little buggers are everywhere like… little green nugs) and more than half of the villages have been kidnapped to serve as slave labour.

I figured Dorian and Vivienne - sorry, Madame de Fer - would probably want to sit this one out, even if they’re too prideful - _polite_ - to say it. I was glad when Solas volunteered to come.  Varric wouldn’t take no for an answer; Bull, Sera and Cole hate the stuff as much as I do (Red Lyrium, not Elfroot, although it is a close second, _yuck_ , disgusting stuff) and Cassandra knows how much this shit creeps me out, so... I hope her books are enough to keep her occupied. And another thing –

“ _Maxwell!_ ”

Cue comical jump because:  _holy shit did she scared me_! “Maker’s breath, Cassandra! Are you trying to scare me half to death?” My heart’s beating so fast it’s unreal. I can feel it pounding through my chest plate.

“You were humming.”

“I was… humming?”

No, I’m pretty sure I was talking to myself. Or you, whoever you are. Hello! Oh, and by the way, my name’s Max Trevelyan, but everyone just calls me the Herald of Andraste. No, don’t you start! And if you’d like to keep your tongue, don’t call me Maxwell. Cassandra only gets away with because… well, she’s Cassandra. Duh.

“Let’s call it a day,” Varric sighed.

“But it’s not even dusk yet,” I frowned, raising my eyes to the horizon. You know, if you ignored all the Red Lyrium, the view is actually pretty nice. “And we still have a job to do.”

“Inquisitor –”

“No, Solas. Those villages need rescuing. Maker only knows how long they’ve been out there. We can’t abandon them. I _won’t_ abandon them. Just keep me distracted. Varric! Tell us a story. You still haven’t told me how Hawke defeat the Arishok.”

Talk about Hawke, and Varric gets this misty-glow in his eyes. I’ve always wondered, but I’m too polite to ask. Cassandra, of course, hangs on his every word about the Champion.

“I would very much like to see the battle for myself, given your nature for embellishment, Master Tethras.”

“You mean lies.”

“I would _never_ lie about Hawke, Seeker. Now, you all know the Arishok killed the Viscount. Hawke arrived with Guard Captain Aveline, Fenris and myself when…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to point out, this scene happened just prior to Chapter 1. We'll catch up with the action in Chapter 3.
> 
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!


	3. Max Meets Giggles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max has a lot of questions, and concerns, but they'll have to on hold for a while. He wants a drink first. It's a shame Cassandra will make certain he only has access to water. Ah well, he'll just get drunk with Bull and Dorian back at Skyhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: minor description of blood and injuries. I don't go into detail, but better safe than sorry.

I’ve gotten used to people staring at me, being the ‘Herald of Andraste’ and all that, but this woman gave a whole new meaning to the word ‘creepy’. Her eyes were size of Cassandra’s shield, the deepest blue you could possibly imagine, and her hair a vivid red I think Leliana would be quite jealous of.

One of her friends turned her head, and pointed in the direction everyone else was hobbling. She shook her head, still smiling like a fool – a very happy fool – and made a shooing gesture that was so terribly Orlesian I almost laughed.

Almost.

She had to pry her hand from the bar, finger by finger, leaving a tattered mess of skin, blood and ice behind. Maker, I hope that’s ice! How long had they been in that cage for her hands to freeze to the fucking bars?

Suddenly, her smile wasn’t so… weird anymore. Or less weird, at least. She looked rather thoughtful, and it gave me a chance to look her over. She was wearing some kind of robe or, maybe, it was a dress? Orlesian fashion has always been lost on me, much to Vivienne’s dismay. That's my brother's department. But she wasn’t wearing any shoes. Not even the footwrap things Solas wears. Were they kidnapping people from their beds, now?

She seemed unusually quiet. Everyone else had shaken hands, kissed cheeks and blessed us on the Maker’s behalf. She just stood there, like a statue, staring. I stared back, then I gave Varric a nudge. She wasn’t blinking. Not even a little.

“Hey, Varric. Do her eyes seem a bit… odd to you?”

Varric put her under the magnifiers that were his eyes, and then proceeded to swear like a fishwife. Why? Her eyes were _purple_ , that’s why!

“Solas!” I called.

What was the damage? She shouldn’t be too far gone. Her eyes weren't red, and she didn’t appear to be suffering from withdrawal. Not yet, at least. But that didn’t mean she was safe. Was she hallucinating? Did she think us projections of her own imagination? Could she even still see?

He took one look at her, face so serene it was painful, and said: “I will do what I can.” He approached the cage slowly, hands always in plain sight, as one might do with a cornered animal. “Do not be alarmed. My friends and I have come to help y –”

She was giggling, shoulders shuddering, body shaking and eyes overflowing with tears that froze against her cheek. How could something so sad be so beautiful? I _really_ shouldn't have read _Swords and Shields_.

“We need to move her away from this shit,” Varric growled, throwing his arm up to the towering vein of Red Lyrium not ten paces to the right of the cage.

Solas was, undoubtedly, going to say something very profound, but the giggling prisoner beat him to the punch, though she spoke with sincere severity. Or, was it severe sincerity?

“ _Ma serannas_.”

I have no idea what it meant, but I really want to find out. No one, not even Leliana, has managed to make Solas so much as blink, and this woman just got the impeccable elf to jump a foot in the air! I’m definitely buying her a drink later. Just water, though. Alcohol and lyrium don’t mix well.

I wasn’t quite sure how to reassure Solas. I mean, how many humans know elven? Excluding the Ambassador, of course. Varric would probably have had better luck, but he was busy trying to not to laugh. Cassandra looked suspicious. Did she think her infectious? Maker, I hope not!

Face a mask of stoicism once more, Solas tried, and failed, to speak. Again. Giggles gave a cry. Solas was by her side in an instant: she’d made the mistake of removing her other hand from the bars. He coated them in magic. It made her shiver. Was it cold? Did it tickle? I’ve always found magic rather… itchy, uneven. Solas’ was smooth, though. Too smooth. Not even Grand Enchanter Fiona could match his skill.

“Ma…”

I gave Giggles my undivided attention. Varric, Cassandra and Solas were of one mind, and they agreed with me. Always a good thing. Rarely happens, though.

“ _Melava… halani. Ma serannas, falon_.”

“Fascinating.” Indeed, Solas did sound fascinated. “That was an almost perfect translation.”

“Yes, but what did she _say_ , Chuckles?”

“She thanked us for our timely assistance. I –”

Another cry. What she always this accident prone? Or, was it the lyrium? Shit, how did I forget about the lyrium? She was rubbing her head, and glaring at the metal bars as if they’d insulted her mother. Who knew, maybe they had! I really wanted to think that she just had a headache, or she’d hit her head. Both are better alternatives to talking prison cages.

“Ah… _Ir abelas_ ,” she groaned.

“You have nothing to apologise for, _da’len_ ,” Solas assured.

He gave her a little pick-me-up, which had her shivering like I’d tossed her into the river. The frozen river. Did red lyrium make one more susceptible to magic? I asked Varric, but he had no idea, although both Solas and Cassandra felt it was unlikely.

“She does appear to possess some natural resistance. Perhaps she is of noble birth? I admit, I pulled on far more mana than I thought wise, and the results were still less than satisfactory. We should get her inside, quick -”

Giggles was clearing her throat. How very Orlesian. Before I could ask if she _was_ from Orlais, and I really hoped she wasn’t, she pointed to the Red Lyrium and said: “Corypheus.”

“Well, shit,” was all Varric could wheeze.

Cassandra was far more forward. Was the Magister here? Why was he here? When did he arrive? When did he leave? What did he want? Who did he take with him? How large was the force that accompanied him?

I pulled her away several spaces and tried to explain that, until we could verify she wasn’t going insane, or, at least until we got her a warm meal, she probably wouldn’t have much to say. And even if she did, we couldn’t trust anything she said. When I turned back, Solas had covered her with his blanket.

Ah, how sweet. Wait. I’m supposed to save the damsel in distress! Ah, what the heck. They look cute together.

“Um, Solas…?”

Wait. What? When did they share names? Oh, shit! We haven’t introduced ourselves yet. Maker, where have my manners gone? What my mother would do if she found out I –

"Celene?”

The Empress?

“Gaspard?”

Her cousin?

“Briala?”

The Empress’ lover?

Solas looked as lost as I felt.

“Er, Weisshaupt?”

_What the fuck?_

“Clarel? Hawke? Crestwood?”

“Inquisitor!”

Inquisitor was _right_! How the hell did she know about Hawke? Or Crestwood? Was she a spy? Was she an agent of the Inquisition? Why had no one reported her missing? I was going to have _words_ with Leliana when we got back.

“Did you hear all… that?”

“Every word,” he assured. “I think she might be one of ours. Hm. Hang on. Let me try something.”

So, feeling very smart and eager and ten years old, I introduced myself.

“Trevelyan,” she nodded, smiling. She even gave her left hand a little wiggle. Maker, she was breaking my heart. I just want to scoop her up, hug her, and tell her everything would be OK.

“Varric. Cassandra. Solas,” I continued, gesturing to each of them in turn.

“Varric Tethras.” Again, she nodded, and mimed opening a book, flicking through the pages, and writing something in the margins. It pulled out the smile she was searching for.

“Cassandra Pentaghast.” She tried to bow but, sitting down, it wasn’t very graceful. But she did outline an eye, and pointed up to the setting sun. Cassandra never cried. She was trying, very hard, but I could see the tears.

“Solas…” A pause. “Solas.” She clapped her hands in front of her, beaming, as if she’d told us how to cure the Taint.

Said elf cracked a smile.

I waited but, when she didn’t respond I introduced myself, again, and extended my arms to her. Realisation dawned. It looked very much like getting hit with a lightning bolt. Not fun. Experience can be a bit of a bitch sometimes.

She opened, and closed her mouth once, twice, three times. And then she was screaming, crying, pulling her hair and shaking her head so fast she was a blur. I did hug her this time, and she accepted it, curling into my arms.

“It’s OK, Giggles. It’ll all be OK. Hey, Varric? _Will_ she OK?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Elven text was translated in Chapter 1.
> 
> Not sure what I'll be doing with Giggles, but I have a few ideas...  
> They mostly involve: The Iron Bull, Dorian, Fenris, Isabela and Zevran.
> 
> What? NO! It's most certainly NOT what you're thinking! Get your head out of the gutter right now!

**Author's Note:**

> Elven Translation (in order):
> 
> Ma serannas = My thanks (thank you).  
> Ma… Melava… halani = My/me or you/your... time... help. (Read as: your time(ly) help).  
> Ma serannas, falon = My thanks, friend.  
> Ir abelas = I'm sorry.  
> Da'len = child.  
> Halamshiral = The end of the journey (refers to the place, in this instance).  
> Fen'Harel = Dread Wolf.
> 
> I apologise for any mistakes made in translation.


End file.
